


this is just business here

by magisterequitum



Category: Prison Break
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-27
Updated: 2012-02-27
Packaged: 2017-10-31 19:21:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/347529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magisterequitum/pseuds/magisterequitum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set after 3x5. Michael can't focus, and if he can't focus, he can't get them out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	this is just business here

“Just leave me alone.”

That was what Michael had told Whistler, and when the man hadn’t stopped talking, kept poking and asking questions, he’d left. Walked out because he needed to think.

The chains on the cell were a problem, something they couldn’t get around. It was a figurative brick wall to the plan, a cutting off of that direction, and Michael needed to find the next course of action, the other turn that would unfold into a new way for them to get out of Sona.

He couldn’t do that though with Whistler talking non stop. He didn’t care about the other man beyond using him. He needed to focus, and he was anything but focused or in control right now. His brain operated in such a way that it flitted from seeing the individual parts of a scene or the scene as a whole without the background or periphery pieces. Fluidity between the two given what he needed to accomplish, and compartmentalization was a skill he possessed and used too, only now it wasn’t working. Nothing was working.

Michael wandered through the cell block, some part of him registering the other cons he passed, their looks, some speculative, others hard, some suggestive.

He walked past them until his feet stopped in front of a dark cell.

Michael blinked, recognition filtering in with whose cell he’d stopped in front of. He pushed back the thought of why exactly he’d come here, whether it was consciously or subconsciously, and strained his eyes to see through the slotted door for the occupant.

Night had fallen onto Sona, transforming the prison into darkness and shadows with the only light from the guards outside, the posts and the occasional passing headlights of the Jeeps.

He took a step forward, toeing over the line from being outside to being inside.

“Michael,” the growl came from the lower bunk, the cell otherwise deserted.

Michael turned slightly, ducking his head to peer at the bunk’s occupant.

Mahone was a dark silhouette where he lay. He could make out a foot there, a bended knee, the twist of a wrist where it was positioned under the folded jacket serving as an additional pillow. His eyes though, those Michael could see clearly, and they were narrowed slits, the color of gun metal.

“Alex,” Michael conceded, turning sideways and walking till he leaned against the wall. He brushed his fingers against the painted artwork.

“Welcome to my little home,” the other man sneered, twisting the last word into something mocking. “I’d offer you something nicer, but you know how it is.”

He grit his teeth at the resentment there, refusing to feel anything close to remorse; he tamped down the thoughts trying to tell him why he possibly could, how maybe it wasn’t the way he’d initially thought it to be, how Sona changed the game, stripped away what was the reality of outside and what was the reality of inside.

“I need to think,” Michael said, voice low, fingers tapping on the wall. With his other hand, he touched his middle finger to his thumb, rubbing the worn skin there that had developed a callous.

Mahone hummed from the darkness, a knowing sound in his throat. “Whistler too loud,” a sniggering laugh; a statement, not a question. “The man does like to talk. Poor Michael.”

“I need to think,” Michael repeated himself, and outside a guard could be heard shouting at another, quickfire Spanish that he tilted his head towards.

He didn’t hear Mahone move, and perhaps he’d been stupid, so stupid, to turn his back to the other man. But he wasn’t thinking straight, his mind a jumbled mess, and then there was heat against his back, the solid bulk of Alexander Mahone pressing him against the wall. It was like before, like when Michael hadn’t been so sure whether Mahone was going to kill him or something else against the wall of his cell, and now it wasn’t anything like that either.

“Alex,” Michael exhaled, keeping his voice even, a rushing noise filling his ears, and his pulse thudding beneath his skin.

Mahone shushed him, breathing out against his neck where he’d inclined his head. Fingers lifted and tapped against Michael’s shoulder. Somewhere else in the cell block, a radio blared to life, sputtering out the lyrics to some local song. “You need to think, you said. Which means you can’t think. And you need to in order to get us out of here.”

The fingers moved along the worn cotton of his long sleeved shirt. At first Michael thought them to be mindless in their path, but then he realized just what Mahone was doing. Tracing the path of the tattoos underneath, and doing so without needing to see them. And of course, of course he could do so, and he remembered the phone call and the cage and the desperation in finding him; all of that seemed so long ago.

“What are you doing?” And if Michael’s voice wasn’t steady, if he leaned backwards some, if his skin twitched and his body shuddered in anticipation, he didn’t dwell on that either.

Mahone dug his fingers into his shoulder, shifted them down to trace a new path, a new secret that really wasn’t a secret at all, not between them. “Protecting my investment. You are my ticket out of here, Michael. And if you can’t think,” a shrug that Michael could feel, and then a wet touch to the side of his neck that could be a tongue, that was definitely a tongue. “Then you can’t get us out of here.”

Us, Michael thought, and he couldn’t deny that there was an us of some type. But what was the definition, what was the category that they could be placed into, here with Michael between Sona’s walls and Mahone’s chest. But what was it, here, this, currently happening-

-a bite to his neck jolted him from his fractured thoughts.

Mahone’s teeth, sharp teeth, worked at his neck as he pressed more fully against Michael’s back, and one hand drifted from where it had been touching the covered tattoos to his chest. His hand was warm even through Michael’s shirt. It moved lazily at first and then with more purpose, cupping him through his jeans.

Michael jerked at the contact, stumbling so that Mahone reached down for his hip with his other hand, fingers clamping around his hipbone. The radio, from outside the cell, switched stations, blaring loudly and then fading back down.

“Endorphins,” another bite, right under his jawline, short so as not to leave a mark, and thank whatever that Mahone could at least remember to do that. “Provide a release. Settle your thoughts.”

Michael found himself leaning into the hand working on his dick, lifting his hips when sure fingers did away with the snap and the zipper, until there was warmth on his hardening cock. The last time had been his own hand doing this, and he arced forward when a thumb swiped over his head.

“There you go,” Mahone breathed out against his ear, seeming so much louder than his voice actually was in the dark cell.

Michael shifted, turned his head and bit at the other man’s jaw. This wouldn’t work unless Alex gave too, couldn’t exist because if Michael was having to give here it was only fair that Alex gave too, that they both gave so neither were surrendering.

Mahone tilted his head away, but Michael followed, bit again over stubbled skin until he stopped, and then he found dry lips and pressed there until Mahone gave way and opened up. There, that, both giving, enough and it made it right, it fit.

The sounds of Sona filtered in to Michael then, and the fist working his cock and the lips on his faded to the radio playing, the men in the cell next to theirs, the guards in their Jeeps beyond no-man’s land, and then it all came rushing back with his release. He spilled over the fingers that swiped one last time over the head of his cock.

And then as quickly as Mahone had pressed him against the wall, he was gone, retreating to refold his limbs on the bottom bunk.

Michael breathed in through his nose, turning around only once he’d tucked himself back inside his jeans. He found those pale eyes watching him again, always watching. “Just protecting your investment?”

A jerky nod, and a firm voice. “You needed to think. Now you can think.”

Michael would laugh at that if he could get it past his clenched teeth, the omission that now his head was full of other things: the heat of the other man pressed against him, the feel of those thin lips against his, the way he hadn’t needed to see the markings, but had known them all the same.

“Yeah.” Michael slid to the floor, settling there, stretching out his legs before him. He closed his eyes, blocked the ones looking at him out, put what had just happened in a box labeled ‘Alex’ and shoved it away for later; later, if they ever got out of this hell, if so many things, but not now. “I can.”


End file.
